Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle: Apologies
by darcyfarrow
Summary: A continuation of my WIP, "Rumplestiltskin's Final Battle." For @a-monthly-rumbelling, April prompt: "You're the most annoying person I know but I think I'm in love with you anyway." Cerise learns the power of apology and grows closer to Dove. Meanwhile, Rumple becomes a mentor for children who are bullied because of their magic.


**A/N. For a-monthly-rumbelling, April prompt:** **"You're the most annoying person I know but I think I'm in love with you anyway"**

* * *

" _I can see you love her loudly_

 _When she needs you quietly"_

 _-"You're the Best Thing about Me," U2_

* * *

Jo's an unusual guy: a great listener. In those times when you ask his advice in solving a problem, he's an interesting guy: he won't tell you what you should do, or even what he would do in the same situation. Instead, he'll tell you an anecdote of something similar from his own life or an acquaintance's, and leave it to you to figure out the moral of the story. One morning when we're out fishing/painting, I ask him about this communication technique of his, and he says it's something he learned from his grandfather, who found it the most effective way to sneak in some advice he wanted to give Mr. Gold. "You don't give advice to Mr. Gold," Jo grins slyly. "He can be stubborn as a mule. But you lead him to water, let him sniff it, and most of the time, he'll drink."

I rinse my brush in a cup of water before studying the palette for the right patch of blue to match the winter sky. "Am I that stubborn?"

"I wouldn't say you're stubborn at all," Jo replies.

"But I do sometimes get an idea stuck in my head. But you understand, don't you? It's because I never really got to decide things for myself, before."

He blinks up at me from the blanket he's lying on. He's guarding the fishing lines, he claims, but we haven't had a single bite all morning, so I suspect he's mostly daydreaming. "I like your quick decisiveness and commitment to an idea."

"Other people would call that mulishness."

"Other people would be missing out on getting to know a person of strength of character."

I mull this over as I choose the right shade of blue and dip my brush in. "I like the way you compliment me. Most guys would go for the cliches: you're pretty, you have a nice figure. When _you_ compliment a person, it's sincere."

"You like my sincerity."

"I like your sincerity. I can trust it." I sweep a streak of blue across my empty canvas. "I like your analytical and meticulous side, and your patience. Like when you're experimenting with tea blends. When you tell me what you think, I can trust it, because you've thought it all out."

Jo follows a moving cloud with his eyes before he speaks. "They were like us, in that sense."

"Your mother and father?"

"No, Mom and Dad are two peas in a pod. I mean the Golds. She was impulsive and decisive and stubborn—"

"Ah ha, you admit it. You think I'm stubborn." But he can tell by my tone I'm teasing him.

"She was impulsive and decisive and committed to her ideas."

"And he was meticulous, analytical and patient." I chew on the end of my brush, thinking about Bae. "Three hundred years of patience."

"Opposite sides of the coin," he surmises. "They broke up so many times, we thought their relationship was doomed. But they figured something out: a two-headed coin is worthless."

"And the head needs to communicate with the tail. Fair, honest communication. With each side listening, really listening, and respecting the views of the other."

"It took a lot of work." There's a slight warning in his tone. "But after that work's done, lord, what a team!"

"Is this one of your 'for example' stories, Jo? Are you suggesting there's a lesson here for you and me?"

He sits up. "You got me there. I do need to try more directness, fewer anecdotes."

I visualize that and decide I don't like the image: Jo as a mirror of my own personality. "No you don't. You just need to be yourself. I can listen. Belle was a reader, you know: it took her a little time but she figured out she needed to read between her husband's lines, just as she would do for any creative writer."

"And he figured out he needed to do his analyzing aloud, so she could follow his train of thought and add new information to his research. Once they started sharing like that, they found true power." Jo's jaw works as he frames his question in his usual careful way. "Do you think we can do that kind of work, Cerise? Do you want to?"

My instinct is to protect my pride, shield my vulnerability. And I'd have an excuse to duck the question: we've only been seeing each other three weeks. I don't even know if I can call our seven get-togethers "dates": though we've kissed, they've been "thank you" and "good job" kisses, and we have yet to test the strength of my futon against our combined weight. I enjoy our outings. I trust him. I confide in him, and he in me. We're already a team and each of us on our own side is making an effort to understand the other. Do I want more? My daydreams of a future home with him show me I do. At least, I want to try. Will I sabotage it with my stubbornness or my impulsiveness? I answer with the first reply that leaps into my head: "Jo, I'm twenty-three."

Somehow that makes sense to him. He answers in kind, sadly: "I'm thirty-three." Then he grins: "But I'm very patient."

* * *

From the beginning, we've taken turns choosing the activity for our. . . well, I'm not sure I can call it a "date." I mean, there's been movie-time cuddling, there's been goodbye and hello hugging, there've been thank-you kisses and several "I like this or that about you" declarations, but passion has yet to raise its tantalizing head. Maybe that's best. If the temperature of those kisses rises, we'll know it's based on something longer-lasting than sexual heat, and more complicated.

It's my turn to choose the activity for our. . . get-together, and I've chosen something I'd really like to do. I know him well enough by now to be sure Jo would never have selected this himself, but that's okay: he's the kind of guy who takes things in stride, even it means losing an evening on an activity he doesn't enjoy. He's also the kind of guy who approaches a new experience with an open mind: he'll wait until the night's over before he tells me if he was bored or uncomfortable during it. The first time he told me he hadn't enjoyed one of our activities (we'd tried a little ice skating at Swan Park), I'd learned a lesson for our future interactions: I needed to be a bit more open-minded too, especially when the activity was one of Jo's favorites. Spending time with him, I'd found, could make an otherwise dull thing interesting.

He picks me up at the library. "Where are we going tonight?"

I slide into the backseat of his automated car, beside him, close enough to reach but not so close as to imply anything more than friendship. "One of the guys on the Immigration Committee just opened a new business at Swan Park. I thought we'd give him a little encouragement." When he raises a suspicious eyebrow, I hastily assure him, "It's not ice skating. It's a game." His eyebrow drops. "Chess, in fact." His lips curl up. "Life-size." That eyebrow rises again. "You'll see." I link my arm through his. "You're going to like it." He really will—once a week, he plays chess by hologram with Mr. Gold. He's going to have a good time.

And he does. Even when he finds out that the chess board is half the size of a football field and the chess pieces are us. Jo's a knight, I'm a bishop and the rest of the Immigration Committee and their dates or spouses complete the White Team, which Mayor McIntire directs; the high school baseball team become the Black Team, with Principal Nolan directing. The squares in which we stand are heated (and in summers, air conditioned); so are the bleachers where spectators cheer us on.

When the Black Team emerges victorious, Jo, who was benched before me, slides an arm around my shoulders and leads me back to the car with a promise of dinner, featuring a from-scratch apple pie he baked just for me. "I had a great time," he laughs, scraping his damp hair back from his forehead. "Let's do it again next week." Then he stops in mid-step, I stumble against him in the unexpected halt, and his arm slips from my shoulder to join his other arm around my waist and he pulls me in.

And any questions I had about the nature of our relationship are answered with the very natural way his mouth conquers mine.

* * *

We're crammed onto an armless chair together so that we can both be captured by the small camera on Jo's computer. To fit us both in, we have to lean into each other, our arms embracing—not that we mind. We've rehearsed and timed and rehearsed again the little speech we'll be sending via NASA's interplanetary communications system, because we have only three minutes. Sending this message costs NASA a pretty penny; they agreed to it only when we proved to them that our Mr. Gold is indeed blood kin to their Mr. Rosales, and that Mr. Rosales is Mr. Gold's only living relative. Jo carried the ball across the goal line when he mentioned that Mr. Gold was the father of Gideon and Joy Gold.

We've got our message honed to precisely two minutes and fifty-one seconds. It sounds kind of emotionless because it's so rushed, but we have quite a lot to tell him about our project and what we hope his role will be in it. We introduce ourselves—"Cerise, psychotherapist at the assisted-living home your great-great grandfather lives in" and "Josiah Dove, your namesake's grandson." Then I explain that Mr. Gold's health has declined and I believe I have a way to lift his spirits. Then I make my pitch while Jo watches the clock. He squeezes my knee when I hit the two-minute forty-second mark and I have to rush my words, but I manage to leave us enough time for a farewell and "good luck on your mission."

Drained, we lean back in the chair (and each other's arms) and submit the message. It's up to Joey Rosales now. We've done all we can. Jo has invested almost as much time in this project as I have, and he knows how much effort and hope have gone into it. "Let's celebrate," he suggests. "Let's bake cinnamon rolls."

"Aaahhh, cinnamon rolls." I close my eyes in anticipation, then open them in worry. "Do you think he'll answer, Jo?"

"Any guy who'd take the time to tell an interviewer how he got his name is the kind of guy who'd want to meet his great-great grandfather."

"I hope so. Mr. Gold really needs this."

* * *

I'm going back to work this morning. Jo came over at 6am—as a fisherman, he's an early riser—and we had breakfast together (his popovers and newest tea blend, my Scrambled Eggs a la Nova). We pointedly talked about everything else but my return to work. I need to leave before he does, so he stays behind to tidy up the kitchen, in the old-fashioned way; my computer system isn't advanced enough to handle cleaning chores. He walks me to the front door and kisses me on my mouth, but lightly, not romantically. We both must be heading off to our jobs, after all. "Go get 'em, Cherie. But not too hard."

No, not too hard. My heels click on the sidewalk as I walk to work. Not hard at all. I've already decided what I'm going to do: the right thing. The mature thing. I can't make things better at the Home if I get fired; I've got to get back inside and make my voice heard.

My footsteps slow as I cross the lawn to the Home's entrance. Besides, I behaved rashly. I was wrong.

The androids and the night nurse greet me as I pass them in the corridor, their tones neutral; I suspect they were told I was out on vacation or a training, something mundane like that. Andy is waiting in the doorway of my office; he almost looks guilty, though of course an android can't feel. "Ms. Cerise, I want to apologize. I had no choice—"

"I understand. You did nothing wrong, Andy. I'll be back in a few minutes to hear the overnight report, but for now, is Blue in her office?"

"She is. She's alone. She asked to speak to you as soon as possible."

Mentally, I gird my loins (I don't know what that means, but I read it in a book somewhere and I like it) and march directly to her office. Finding her studying some online file, I rap on the open door. "Come in," she says, absently at first, then she blinks clear of the file she's reading and she frowns. "Sit down, Cerise."

I obey, but I want the upper hand in this conversation before she starts on her lecture about rules and order. "Blue, I want to apologize. I demonstrated some poor judgment and behaved badly when you corrected me. I came to realize, while I was out on suspension, that there are good reasons for the rules we have, and processes in place for making changes, and I had ignored all that when I allowed a visitor to enter after hours and when I brought alcohol into the House. Just because I find a rule too restrictive doesn't give me the right to override it. I also should have spoken to everyone first before I decided to move out of the convent. I've spoken to Nova since then and I know my sudden disappearance upset her and the other sisters. I was wrong in both matters and I'm sorry."

Her mouth falls open. "Oh! All right. . . .I accept your apology and will extend it to the sisters. Are you thinking, then, of returning to the convent?"

"I think it's best for all of us if I stay where I am. It's time for me to grow up, and I can only do that if I start taking responsibility for myself."

"I see. Well, I understand you signed a lease, anyway. It would be dishonorable to break it." She stands, signaling an end to our conversation. "Well, you seemed to have learned what I intended to tell you, so I suggest you get back to work. You have a lot to catch up on."

I hadn't tried to guess how Blue would react to my apology, but I'm thinking now, as I walk out, that her non-reaction is in keeping with her character. No more will be said about my screw-ups until my annual review comes up in June. I still feel the same about the rules, but I'll follow them until I've succeeded in persuading the Powers That Be to change them. When I meet him for dinner tonight, Jo will tell me he's proud of me. I'm kind of proud of myself.

In my office, Andy is waiting to give his nightly report. But Mr. Gold is there too, welcoming me with a sad smile. "Ms. Cerise." He puffs his chest in preparation for a little speech. "For my part in our misadventure, I am most regretful. If there is any way I can make it up to you, please, I will gladly do it." He shoots a nasty glare at Andy, then leans forward confidentially. "I've learned that your paycheck was withheld during your absence."

I lean against the edge of my desk. "Who told you?" Surely not Jo—he's not the kind to sell my trust just to share some gossip with Gold.

Gold answers my question by glaring again at the guilty party. I huff. I suppose I mustn't blame Andy: nobody thought to program him to treat the news of my suspension as a secret. Still, it pisses me off.

"If I can—I'm partially responsible, after all—I'd like to. . . make up for that."

I redden. "Thank you, Mr. Gold, but no. It's all worked out."

"I really wish you'd let me. Not a loan, a—a restitution. For what I cost you."

"I'm fine, really, Mr. Gold. The punishment was good for me, in a way. I mean, I learned I need to go through channels if I want to make changes. I'm learning how I need to grow up." We share a rueful smile before I confide, "Besides, it gave me time to get better acquainted with Josiah Dove."

His eyes light up. "Indeed." I don't know if that means he's already been informed, or if he's simply congratulating himself in a successful matchmaking venture. "Well, I suppose I shouldn't keep you any longer; there's a welcome home party waiting for you in the dining room. Ms. Hua baked a spice cake."

"Oh yeah?" I allow him to lead me into the celebration.

* * *

As evening falls, Jo is waiting for me in the lobby. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he's closely studying all the staff members who walk past him, even the androids, as if a small frown or a blink might clue him in on how well I was received back to work today. Reading people is one of his many talents; it's served him well in both his career and his family life, his parents being the strong-and-silent type. Coming around from my office, I reassure him of the success of my day with a wink and a grin, and he settles comfortably on both feet as he watches me approach. The question that his body language had blared at me having now been answered, his face softens, but there's a bit of gleam in his fresh-earth brown eyes that informs me he's allowing himself to think past worry to other, more enticing thoughts. A gentleman, yes—he would never allow his gaze to turn suggestive—but a man nonetheless, and that glint reminds me that, fairy though I am, I am also, in his eyes, a woman, and that grants me a power beyond the weak bit of magic I was created with.

I slide my hand into his and after a quick kiss to my cheek, he whispers, "It went okay, then?"

"It went okay." We won't say any more about it yet: we will discuss my comeback in private, over dinner at his house. A warmth flows over me as I realize that I have someone I can share secrets with. I could get used to this, I think, though I am well aware that the support and comfort a relationship provides must come at the price of occasional hurt feelings and misunderstandings.

* * *

I shake my hairbrush at my image in the mirror. I'm way ahead of myself, I growl at my reflection; but that's typical me, too much imagination and impulse, too little judgment. These flaws make sense, I suppose, because I've spent my life, up until the most recent six weeks of it, doing what was planned for me. When you're told from the time you can walk that your footsteps been mapped out by the Fates, that doesn't leave much room for you to make choices. From the clothes I wore and the food I ate, to the books I read and the God I worshiped, someone else did the thinking for me. I suppose it's natural that, being out on my own for the first time, I go a little wild in planning my life.

My little apartment has a primitive computer system, with far fewer functions that the typical house's, but it can still identify approaching visitors for me. "Mr. Josiah Dove," it announces, and on my instruction, the front door opens to admit him. "Hi," he greets me. "Am I too early?" He's in a tuxedo worthy of Mr. Gold's approval (though he's admitted it's a rental; Storybrooke doesn't have many places that call for dressing up). As a banker, Jo normally wears a simple, off-the-rack suit. I like him better in denim and cotton, but tonight could change my mind.

"Right on time." And so am I. Impulsive, yes, but rude, I am not. I don't keep people waiting. Besides, we have delightful plans tonight. It's a fundraiser for the Mills Foundation—Jo's expected to attend those occasionally, since he speaks for Mr. Gold (and Mr. Gold's millions)—your standard black tie dinner, catered by an overpaid, ego-inflated Cordon Bleu chef. But the event organizer is livening things up a bit: he's bringing in actors dressed in period costume to dine with us. These aren't your run-of-the-mill actors: they've dedicated their lives to playing one historical figure exclusively. "Your Dream Dinner with History," the event is called. An auction was held thirty days ago, with the highest bidder winning the rights to choose the historical figures with whom we would be dining tonight, and lesser bidders, in order of the amount of their bid, winning their choice of seating arrangements. Mayor K. T. McIntosh won the big bid and selected the ten historical figures, a nice mix of realms represented in her selections.

I've never been to a fancy-dress dinner, and Jo is understanding of my nervousness, echoing it himself: he's far more at ease with a picnic at the lake or lunch at Granny's. But Mr. Gold assisted me in selecting a gown and jewelry, the choices displayed for us on a Virtual Model made to look just like me; it all cost me a pretty penny but I charged it and the bill won't come due until my paycheck has been issued. And some of my collaborators on the Emigration Committee coached me on the "who's who" of the likely dinner guests and the current unwritten rules of etiquette. So I tuck my hand into Jo's arm, slap on a smile, and glide into the ballroom.

Right away I forget my nervousness. The place is crowded and everyone's so occupied with their schmoozing that they pay no attention to us. We're so far down the social ladder that the climbers can barely see us coming up behind. I feel the tension leech from Jo's bicep and I begin to breathe normally. Android servers weave in and out with trays of drinks and hors oeuvres. We snatch flutes of champagne as an usher rushes up to greet us, check our seating assignment and lead us to our table, where we are welcomed by two other couples (he knows both couples and whispers an assurance to me that they're "regular people" like us). And then, best of all, the surprise Jo has been withholding from me: I discover that we will be dining with "Victoria Woodhull." I'm going to spend an evening in conversation with one of the most fascinating women in American history.

I lean into Jo. "Did you—"

He nods, pleased with himself. "I had the second highest bid, so K. T. asked me to choose one of the historical figures. I have to confess, most of my contribution came via Mr. Gold, but he's always made a sizable annual donation to the Mills Foundation, going back to the days when Belle wrote the checks for charity."

I nod at the woman seated at the head of our table: a tall, young actress dressed in a black silk dress that covers her from chin to ankle. Ruffles decorate her cuffs, her hem and her neckline. A cameo brooch and a white tea rose are her only adornments. Her blue eyes dance with daydreams and ambitions. Her auburn hair is cropped jarringly short, compared to the traditional modesty of her dress, but that was Victoria Woodhull for you: a rebel a hundred years ahead of her time. The first woman to run for United States President, the first woman stockbroker, the first woman to address a Congressional hearing, one of the first women to publish a newspaper. She's a woman of ideas, and just as importantly, daring. Even now, when we haven't even had the appetizers served yet, she's already stirring the blood of everyone seated near her: "My whole nature is prophetic. I do not and cannot live merely in the present. It is because I love you all, and love your well-being still more than I love you, that I tell you my vision of the future and that I would willingly disturb your confidence, so long cherished, in the old dead or dying-out past."

At the tables around us Einstein, Socrates, Rhiannon and Queen Boudica hold court, but their table-mates are leaning leftward to catch our Victoria's declamations. I'm practically bouncing in my seat, anxious to ask her a thousand questions, but I must be polite and wait my turn. So as I listen to my table-mates ask their oh-so-mundane questions (they'd been provided a bio in advance, so that they would know something about the celebrity in their midst) and I poke at a shrimp cocktail, I grin at my date. This is the best gift anyone has ever given me, and I will tell Jo so, when he drives me home. And Mr. Gold, who made this all possible.

* * *

Gold's waiting for me in my office when I come in, just a teensy bit late the next morning. "Did you have a good time, Sparrow?"

"It was a wonderful night, and I thank you for your part in it." I drop a curtsy, which makes him raise an eyebrow. It's probably been a hundred years since anyone last curtsied to him.

"I just made a few suggestions, that's all. It was enjoyable for me, as well, rather reminiscent of April 3, 2040." Mr. Gold's eyes glaze over with a memory.

I don't want to interrupt, so I make my voice soft, to weave into his thoughts. "What happened then?"

"Joy's first date. A dance. I took her dress shopping. Belle had a fashion sense that was all her own; I was a bit more knowledgeable about formal wear. Joy chose a violet A-line chiffon, with her mother's pearl necklace." He clears his throat to bring himself back to the present. "Moments that a father never forgets."

For a second, I'm envious of humans. Okay, for _ten_ seconds I'm envious. It's a familiar feeling, stretching all the way back to my first day in school, when I was the only kid being dropped off at the gate by a nun. I swallow hard to drive the anger down. But then a shaft of morning light slanting in through my window catches on the beading of my rented evening gown, now resting on a hook behind my door. The dress appears to sparkle, a visual reminder of the wonderful evening I had last night. Mr. Gold helped me pick out that gown. I guess I've had a small taste of what it might be like to have a father.

"Thank you, Mr. Gold." Before this gets too sentimental for either of us, I sweep my arm toward the corridor in an invitation to accompany me out. "Shall we get some breakfast?"

As I start out into the hall, he swings his wheelchair around to follow me. "I already had mine, but I'll take some tea with you, if you'll tell me all about the event. Oh, and I should warn you: you'll have a bit of an audience. Ms. Lucas, Ms. Shulman and Mr. Page have held up their meal for an opportunity to breakfast with you."

* * *

I'm at my desk, reviewing my notes and guzzling chamomile in hopes of quieting my nerves. I've only been back three months—maybe it's too soon for what I've scheduled myself to do. Maybe the board of directors will plug their ears to me because I'm still a new hire on probation and just a kid fresh out college. Or worse, maybe they'll glare at me in suspicion, expecting some rebellious ridiculousness from me, the kid who flagrantly violates carefully thought-out restrictions meant to safeguard the residents' health. Or worst, probably they'll be listening intently for one more, just one more, stupid goof to give them the excuse they need to demand Blue fire me.

I should've waited another month or two, give them time to cool down. Give myself time to rebuild my confidence. But I didn't and I'm not really sure why, except that when I'd talked this over with some of the other residents, they'd all been so encouraging, so enthused, even, that I felt like I'd be letting them down if I didn't get the ball rolling on this Mentor Program as soon as possible. And after that the dominoes tumbled: I did my homework, querying other Homes that have similar programs, reviewing the professional literature, crafting a methodology and timeline and evaluation forms, weaving it all together in a proposal that would gotten me an A back in college, garnered a letter of support from Amy Hopper (really, this was her idea anyway), forwarded it to Blue. . . and now, with Blue's initial approval, I'm about to bring it forward to the board.

Jonquil pops her head in at ten til nine. "Ready?"

As I'm standing, she sets down a little crystal vase containing a single orange flower. "Almost forgot: this came for you." When I open the attached notecard, a hologram of Jo emerges, giving me a thumb's up: "Hey Cherie, this is a nasturtium; the florist says it symbolizes victory. Go get 'em, darlin'. Call me when it's over."

"Thanks, J.," I murmur. The orange clashes with the forest green blazer I'm wearing but I don't care: I twine it into my buttonhole anyway.

I follow Jonquil through the corridor and into the lobby, where, to my surprise, Mr. Gold is waiting. "Good morning, Sparrow."

"Morning, Mr. G. Came to wish me luck?"

"I believe that a person makes her own luck." He angles his chair away from me and toward the East corridor. "I thought I would attend this meeting." He peers up at Jonquil. "Residents are still permitted to attend public board meetings, are they not?"

"Of course." Jonquil is as surprised as I am; residents and the public are welcome to these meetings, though they never bother. Usually, the business is routine and dry.

Gold swivels his head to face me. "If my presence will not disturb?" What he's really asking is whether his presence will make me more nervous than I am. I reassure him, "I'd like that" and our little parade travels into the dining room, where eleven sharply dressed folk (most of them business owners who see membership on a nonprofit board as an opportunity to elevate their "good guy" status) are seated around a horseshoe table that's replaced our standard rectangular dining table. The dining chairs have been arranged classroom style and a podium has been set up between them, facing the horseshoe. Blue is bent over the board president's shoulder, chatting informally (buttering her up, no doubt). As Jonquil, Gold and I arrive, she glances up, her face expressionless until she notices Gold; then a quick scowl flashes.

"It's time to begin," the secretary announces. With a flick of their fingers in mid-air, each board member brings up his or her electronic notepad; meanwhile, the secretary orders the House to display the meeting agenda on the walls. Blue hastens behind the podium as Jonquil and I seat ourselves in front-row chairs beside her. Gold, the only spectator, rolls into the back row.

The meeting begins and I'm reminded why the public never attends: the board president calling the meeting to order; the secretary, taking roll call and reviewing last month's meeting minutes and calling for their approval; Blue making her monthly report, full of numbers (Blue trusts numbers more than people); the president calling for the report to be accepted; then Blue calling me forward to give my proposal. By the time they've come round to me, I'm half-asleep with boredom, so my hands are no longer shaking. I order the House to display my visual aids as I present my proposal. I'm focused on those visuals, so it's only after I've finished that I make eye contact with the board members. Yes, it's as I'd suspected: some of them are ignoring me; some are glaring at me with disapproval; but three of them seem interested, especially when I drop the names of some prominent gerontologists who have created similar programs. The board president's shoulders rise and fall, a silent signal to the others that she doesn't much care one way or another if we pursue this. My presentation finished, the secretary calls for questions and I bat at a few: what will this cost (I went over that during the presentation, but I swallow my impatience to go over the budget again), the extent of Dr. Hopper's involvement. Then one of my tepid supporters introduces an idea: "Seems to me this will be good for public relations. Bringing kids in to interact with the residents, under supervision, of course. Might repair some of the damage done by that remodeling scheme."

"Maybe we can get Councilman Clary's kid to sign up. He dotes on that kid. Might shift his way of thinking about zoning laws," another board member mutters. It's common knowledge that Clary has been thwarting our board's wishes for years.

Murmurs ensue and I exchange a hopeful glance with Jonquil. When the president raps her gavel and asks if there's any more discussion, the board quiets, ready to vote, but from the back of the dining room a deep voice rings out, commanding yet polite: "Pardon me. May an observer comment?"

"That would be unusual," the secretary begins, but the president recognizes Mr. Gold (and his money) and grants him the floor. Gold rolls up to the front, positioning himself beside Blue. "Ladies and gentlemen, I won't take up your time. Believe me, I remember how busy a businessperson in this town can be." There's a polite chuckle from the board, though I don't know what for. Gold continues, "For what it's worth, I simply wanted to voice my own support for this program. Should Ms. Cerise's proposal be approved by this august assembly, I intend to be the first to volunteer as a mentor. I believe, with my business acumen, I could be of assistance to future entrepreneurs."

That's not what I intend to sign him up for—in fact, this whole mentoring program started as a way of lifting Mr. Gold's spirits—but I'm grateful for support. I glance over my shoulder at him, intending to catch his eye and give him a smile, but his gaze is fixed on the president of the board, who squirms just a little. What's going on there, I wonder (at dinner this evening Jo clues me in: the board president and her spouse are a bit behind in their payments on a loan made by Gold Enterprises).

The vote is taken. My proposal is approved 7-4.

* * *

My five volunteer mentors—Ruby, who will teach business skills; Ms. Hua, who will teach martial arts; Ms. Schulman, who will coach violin; Mr. Smee, who will teach knot tying and navigation; and Mr. Gold—have gathered in the dining room. On the dining table are a plate of cookies, baked by Mr. Hua, and glasses of milk; when the children arrive we will break the ice with snacks and conversation before we split off into separate groups for our first, hour-long lesson. Each mentor will have two students. We're keeping the groups small because the mentoring isn't just about the subject matter; it's about building relationships, giving these kids someone safe and nonjudgmental to talk to about the problems of growing up.

Andy scoots in to announce the children's arrival. I've held off on sharing one small detail about my plans, because I didn't want to give Mr. Gold a chance to refuse: "Mr. G., before they come in, there's something you need to know: the kids I've scheduled for you aren't here for lessons on entrepreneurship. They're here for magic lessons."

Gold's head snaps up, but typical Mr. Gold, he regains composure in a heart beat. "I think that's a very good idea, Ms. Cerise."

"You do?" I was expecting resistance, but I'm not sure why.

"I do. Who knows more about magic than I? And who will ensure that these children get a full slate of study, from the Laws of Magic to its history to the chemistry of potions and the physics of spells?" His eyes twinkle. "I assume you'll be one of my pupils?"

"Ah, no, I hadn't—"

"But you will be observing our lessons, won't you? Feel free to ask questions as I go through the lessons. In fact, feel free to participate in the exercises and quizzes."

I'm scratching my head as the children are ushered in. How did we go from "a way to cheer up Mr. Gold" to "a way to rope Cerise into learning magic"? My mind is foggy, but I have a strong suspicion that somehow, Mr. Gold set this whole scheme up.

* * *

"I don't have an answer for you on how to deal with bullies." Mr. Gold looks every bit as discouraged as the seven-year-old sitting at his feet. "I never figured it out myself."

"You mean you got bullied too? _You_?"

"I didn't have magic then. And I was kind of skinny and short and I grew up poor. My mother ran out on me, my father was a thief, I had to beg or steal for food. So yeah, I got beat up a lot. Even when I was an adult. Then magic came into my life—a lot of magic all at once—and I became the bully. I know from that experience how bullies are made, but how to stand up to them? I still don't know. What I do know is that if you learn to control your emotions, you'll learn to control your magic, and fewer people will pick on you when you feel confident and secure." He lets the boy think about this, then clasps his hands. "So, are you ready for your first lesson?"

The boy leaps to his feet. "Yeah! Can we do a fireball?"

Gold waves the child down. "Not yet. Not for a long while yet. You'll develop your defenses first. But before we learn any magic, we're going to learn the laws. When you can say them all, backwards and forwards, and when you can explain to me why it's vital that you obey those laws, then we'll have our first lesson in conjuring."

I settle myself on the garden bench. The boy can see me now, but he's been here enough times to feel comfortable around me. And Mr. Gold has sensed my presence from the beginning. In fact, it's what he wanted, for me to join in on the lessons. I'm not really committed—I just want to hear what he has to say about the laws of magic. Not committed. Not yet. But I'm listening.

* * *

Jo's staring at my chin, not into my eyes, when my apartment unlocks its door to admit him. I've learned what that indicates: he's feeling guilty. I've also learned that the few times Josiah Dove feels guilty about something, it's usually something trivial. He's a details guy, every _t_ crossed, every decimal in its perfectly correct place, which is a quality one hopes for in one's banker, but not necessarily in one's boyfriend. Lucky for me, he's learned how to shut off his auto-correct when he's off-duty—and his temper never boils over.

It's a warm April evening, and we've planned a stroll in the park, picking up supper at the Taco Stand before we walk over to the Rose Red Theatre for opening night of _Hamlet_ , starring (via hologram) Sir Lawrence Olivier, Sir Kenneth Branagh, Dame Helen Mirren, Richard Burbage and David Garrick. It's my pick: Jo's not much for classical drama, but he claims that any entertainment that pleases me will content him. He greets me, accepts my welcoming kiss on his cheek, then leaps right into the reason for his guilt: "We'd talked about a painting lesson this Saturday, but the guys are talking about a camping weekend at Sebago Lake. Kind of a tradition: we go camping on the weekend before my birthday. Will it wreck your plans, Cherie?"

"Your birthday?" I echo. I'm the one who ought to feel guilty. I've memorized the birthdates of every Arbor resident (excepting Mr. Gold, who doesn't know the date of his birth), and I've yet to fail to plan a little party, even though we fairies don't celebrate personal holidays. (The year I started school, I threw—and maintained for an entire week—a tantrum that disrupted the convent's serenity because all the other kindergardeners had birthday parties and I didn't. Blue didn't budge an inch on the issue: a predictor for me of the battles of will yet to come.)

I can rattle off the birthdates of seventy-nine elders, but I haven't bothered to ask after my own boyfriend's. I hang my head in shame. I will make it up to him, I swear. Cake, balloons, something really special for a gift. As soon as I find out the date. As we wait in line at the box office, I hasten off a message to Mr. Gold, via Andy, and by the time we've been ushered to our seats, I have my answer: next Tuesday. As the house lights go down, I smirk, my little devious mind whirring with plans for something really really special.

On Tuesday I sweep into the bank at eleven a.m. and as Jo's head snaps up from the mid-air ledger he's examining, I perch on the edge of his desk. (Later on I think I shouldn't have done that: this desk might be an antique.) I'm dressed in a sparkly thing, my hair swept up in a chignon, and I cross my legs flirtily. "Mr. Dove, your lady requests the pleasure of your company for the day, beginning right now." He's the president of the bank, so I figure no one will complain if he slips out on his birthday.

He pushes his chair back from the desk and with his employees out there in the lobby openly eavesdropping, most of them in on my plan, he blushes but rises to the challenge. "Very well, Ms. Cerise. I'm yours for the rest of the day." I lean over, whipping something out of my purse so fast he can't catch me, and with a quick kiss to his cheek I bind his eyes with a blindfold. "It's a surprise." I drop down from the desk and spin him around by the shoulders. "Come along, sir." Folding his hand into the crook of my arm, I lead him from the bank (the employees giggle and applaud), into the street and down Moncton to the Hyperloop station entrance. It being a weekday, the station is not crowded and when the tube arrives, we find a seat easily. The few passengers stare and glare at us, put off by the blindfold, until I inform them it's Jo's birthday, then they smile indulgently and settle back in their seats.

In a half-hour we change trains, onto an elbow-to-elbow crowded one, and in another ten minutes we've arrived at our destination, and now the train announcer spoils my surprise: "Yaaaaankee Stadium. Yaaaaankee Stadium." I give up on my secret, yanking the blindfold from Jo's blinking eyes, and he stumbles as he follows me off the train. "We've got tickets to the season opener? But it's sold out."

Indeed, it was, and when I'd learned that, I'd had a moment of panic that my really really special surprise would fall flat. But living in a small town can be helpful when you want to effect a deal, I've learned from Mr. Gold's reminisces, and a few informative words from him led me to a season ticket holder whose mother is an Arbor resident, and when she put in an earful of good words for me (ending with a reminder that she'd once bailed her son out when he's forgotten his wife's birthday), I soon had two tickets for the night game.

We're caught up in a crowd now and we have no choice but to proceed into the stadium. Not that I would be anywhere else on this day but with my boyfriend, Storybrooke's biggest Yankees fan. I know this because he's told me his fondest childhood memory is attending, at the age of seven, his first Yankees game with his father. And I know it again when I look up into his shining eyes.

We find our seats and my credit card gets another workout when I summon vendor after vendor for programs, ball caps, hot dogs and beer. I gulp nervously, mentally tallying the money I've spent, then I gulp my beer to cover up my nervousness. The price of impulsiveness. Ah, but so what if I'll be eating beans for the next month to pay for this trip. I'll just remember the way Jo leaps to his feet and whistles through his teeth at the first crack of the Yankee bat. And when that crack lands a player on second base, Jo grabs me by the waist, spins me toward him, tips me backward and plants a beer-wet kiss on my mouth.

A girl could learn to love baseball if all the games go like this.

* * *

Worth it. Worth it. Worth it. My heels click the message as I stride down First Street. It's a long walk from my cozy apartment in the well-lit downtown area, and the gutters and the street lights aren't maintained nearly as well, but I'm on a mission—a mission to pay down my credit card. My poor little exhausted, panting credit card. It's a Friday, twenty minutes til eight, and when I arrive I'll have just enough time to change out of my professional clothes and into the frilly scraps the Rabbit Hole furnishes its wait staff. I abhor those scraps: they barely cover my bum when I have to lean over a table to serve drinks. I hide in the shadows as much as possible, which denies me of tips that I could have earned, but I'm afraid that one of the customers will recognize me and report me to Blue or K. T.

Worth it. Worth it. Worth it. I hiss between clenched teeth as some smelly dude (someone I've never seen before, thank gods) takes advantage of the gap in my bikini top when I bend over to serve him nachos. His cheesy hand thrusts into my exposed bosom and as I jerk back, clicking my tongue at him, the bouncer appears from nowhere and raps him over the head with his knuckles. "Hands off the staff," the baritone voice booms. "I won't tell you again."

Smelly whines, "Jus' makin' sure she gets her tip."

I flick a finger into my top to retrieve the dollar bill he's stuffed there. I show it the bouncer, who says nothing but doesn't return to his patrol. "Thank you," I whisper to him. Now I know why my sister servers bring the bouncers homemade treats every evening. When Smelly runs out of cash after another drink, the bouncer removes him from the premises. His order of nachos is untouched, so I slide it onto my tray and carry it behind the bar, where it'll fill in for the supper I missed tonight.

This is my third Friday at the Rabbit. I work Saturdays too, leaving me no time for Jo. I've fibbed to him, claiming I have a mandatory online class I'm taking this month for my license. The way he looked at me—looked through me—after I dropped this lie on him convinces me I never ever want to lie to him again, even if it is for his birthday.

Well, it will be over next week. The bruises on my bum from pinches that the customers consider flirty will heal along with my credit rating.

Fingers snap and a woman's voice beckons—commands my presence. I recognize her: a duchess in another realm, she was allowed to immigrate here when she married a Storybrooker, but for years now she's drowned her pride in the bar. Her husband's people were common laborers in the old world, she moans into her scotch. She doesn't believe in tipping "the help" so the other servers have stuck me with her.

I'll get this over with as quickly as possible. I squeeze my way through a crowd of pool players toward the duchess' corner table, but as I balance my tray on one hand and my feet on my spiked heels, I slip in a puddle of spilled beer and I fall into one of the players, her pool cue jutting into my belly. With a grunt I bend over, my tray crashing to the floor, the scotch glass crashing and splintering into shards. That glass will come out of my paycheck. With the aid of a pair of respectful hands, I straighten; another pair of hands retrieves my tray for me. I glance over my shoulder to thank my rescuers.

Oh crap.

"Cerise?" The puzzled eyes study me, then blink and recover. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, thank you—Laurette."

My chem lab partner from tenth grade. She's now a loan officer at the bank.

"Well, I'm glad you're not hurt. Here's your tray."

Nobody gossips like Laurette.

* * *

Jo's waiting for me in my office when I report to work at 7:30 a.m.

His face is full of hurt and confusion and concern. "Why didn't you tell me? I would've loaned you the money."

"Jo, I'm fine, really. I just got in a little over my head, you know, because of the suspension." All the weariness in my body evaporates. "Really." I fake a confident smile. "I only have one more weekend, then I'll be caught up on my bills and I'll quit the bar." I plop down on my chair and run a hand through my beer-scented hair. "Believe me."

He's not giving up the argument. He leans on his hands against my desk. "That part of town isn't safe. That bar isn't safe. One of the servers was accosted last month. Her assailant's in jail." He drops down into the visitor's chair. "You did this for me. For my birthday."

"No, no," I try to deny it. "I was already a bit overextended. No paycheck for January and, you know," I shrug, "moving expenses." I reach across the desk to grab his hand. "I'm young and strong and I can take one more weekend. Really." I never ever want to see that hurt in his eyes again.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

I can't explain it clearly. "You're my boyfriend. I can't owe you. You see? Things between us are balanced. Fair. Equal." Not exactly: there's a species difference we're going to have to address, if this relationship becomes serious.

He sighs. "I guess I get it."

"The bouncers take good care of us. Really."

"Will you let me walk you home when your shift is over?"

I nod. "I'd appreciate that."

He tries to lighten the mood. "And next year on my birthday, let's stay in and watch the game on TV. You can cook me a birthday pizza."

My mouth quirks up. "Next year, huh?"

"Next year," he replies with certainty. He stands. "I should get to the bank. And you know what? I think we should buck tradition: a fairy should have a birthday. Pick a date and we'll make it yours."

"A birthday," I muse. "Okay. See you tonight, Jo?"

He winks at me as he leaves, passing Andy on the way out. The android bids him good morning before entering my office to make his daily report. "A nice man," Andy says.

"A very nice man." Under my breath, I add, "Nice, but sometimes darn annoying."

* * *

"You're unusually quiet," Mr. Gold observes over our evening tea. "A problem with Blue?"

I shake my head. "No, the truce holds."

His lips purse. "Not a problem with Josiah?"

"Not exactly. We had a tiff and it's all settled now. Just a small dispute—really, a good thing: it showed each of us that we have differences of opinion when it comes to money."

A corner of his mouth turns up knowingly. "Spending it or earning it?"

"Both, I suppose. I guess—well, you know, until recently someone else always told me what to do. I _like_ my independence, Mr. Gold. I like deciding how I'm going to spend my money. I even like figuring out how to earn it." I throw my hands in the air. " _I_ want to decide. _I_ want to succeed or fail on my own. I've never had that before. I'm not expressing myself clearly, but do you see what I mean?"

He muses, "In the early days of our relationship, Belle and I had an argument on much the same topic. Perhaps it would help you to understand Josiah's point of view if you were to hear mine in that disagreement."

"I'd like that." I refreshen his tea and mine, then settle in for the story.

After a sip of his green tea, he begins, his eyes glazing over. "I should begin with a little background. Barely a week after Belle had come to work for me in the Dark Castle, a very bold and very stupid young man dared to attempt to break into my home and help himself to my property. 'The Prince of Thieves,' he called himself, and he set out to burnish his reputation even further by successfully stealing from the Dark One. Can you imagine the nerve?" Gold snorted, then backpedaled. "Well, to be fair to Belle, I should mention this Robin of Loxley fellow intended to steal a fairy wand that he believed would restore his ailing wife's health."

"'Believed' it would—or would it really?"

He admits, "It would really, as we discovered later. But instead of making a deal with me, as any honorable, self-preserving individual would, he sought to steal from me. I couldn't allow that, of course; the damage it would do to my reputation would have resulted in encouraging every ragpicker, pursesnatcher and pilferer in the realm to waltz into my home and dip their hands into my treasure. A waste of Belle's time as well as mine, as she would have had to mop up all that blood after I disposed of the bodies."

I cringe and Gold quickly dispenses of that thought. "Robin Hood escaped, Belle and I gave chase—to shorten a long story, when we learned that Mrs. Hood was not only ill but also pregnant, I acquiesced to Belle's wishes. I let Loxley go. Belle rewarded me with a hug, my first hug in centuries. It softened me, and in gratitude I gave her possession of the castle's library."

"A better gift you couldn't have chosen."

"Move ahead thirty years. Belle had just been freed from Regina's underground 'asylum' and the First Curse over Storybrooke had just been broken. Once again, Belle came to live in my home, and once again, we had an argument. She decided to strike out on her own. Like you, she relished the freedom of making her own decisions, but she needed a source of income. I would have gladly given her all the money she needed, but—"

"She wanted the responsibility of taking care of herself." I completely understand.

"Storybrooke has always been a very small town, you know, and the curse had assigned roles to everyone. During those decades when we were frozen in time, no one retired, changed jobs, got fired, no new jobs were created, so when Belle went in search of work, she found nothing. We did have a public library that the curse had copied from other American towns, but on the first day of the town's existence Regina locked it up. Books, you know, lead to learning and learning leads to questions and questions—"

"Lead to uncovering secrets, which leads to cracks in curses."

"With the curse broken, however, keeping it from the citizens was no longer necessary. In fact, we needed that library, for the town to develop. And who better to run it than the woman to whom I had entrusted the Dark Castle library?"

I'm beginning to catch on. "But you didn't just hand her the keys, did you? Because she would've seen that as charity."

"With some nudges from me—and a mention from Dr. Hopper of how much the library could do to alleviate the confusion our citizens were experiencing—the City Council agreed to fund the library. Mr. Dove made sure Belle got the key. I thought it was the perfect arrangement. She was so happy at first—but then, ever curious, Belle traced the job offer back to its source. The next thing I knew, I was confronted in the corridors of City Hall, just as a Council meeting was let out, by a five-foot-tall whirlwind of fury. She thought she had won the job on her own merits, but when she found out I was involved, I couldn't persuade her to see that she had. She dragged Regina into the argument. Our esteemed mayor simply threw up her hands and shouted right back, 'For gods' sakes, Ms. French, do you want the job or don't you? I don't hear anyone else clamoring for it. If you don't take it, the library stays closed.'"

I gasp, as I imagine Belle did upon hearing that declaration.

"There is—was—very little one could say to Belle that would strike her to the quick deeper than that. Hundreds of books collecting dust and mold and mice droppings! She swallowed her pride and agreed to report to work Monday morning, then she spun on her heel and stormed out. For three days, I saw or heard nothing of her, but Monday morning, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, she appeared at my shop. She looked just like that sweet little maid who scrubbed my castle floors." His eyes close to capture every detail in his memory. "'I'm going to clean the library,' she said. I would have dropped to my knees then and begged her to allow me to scrub those floors for her, but the ice in her eyes froze me in place. 'Rumplestiltskin, you're the most annoying person I know,' she said. 'I could just _scream_ sometimes! But I think I'm in love with you anyway.' Then she marched out."

I start laughing even though it might offend him, but in a minute he's chuckling too. "Throughout that day, I watched her, drag buckets and rags and her poor, tired little self to and fro, scrubbing shelves and walls and windows and floors, polishing furniture, dusting books. Mr. Dove asked if he could go over to help her, but I didn't dare allow it: she knew by then that Dove worked for me. But a small word in Henry's ear and soon a crew of volunteer students had arrived, with supplies borrowed from home. They had that library ready to open on the third day. The moral of my story, Sparrow, is that while Josiah needs to understand your need for independence—and you need to explain it to him—you need to understand his need to help the young woman whose welfare is so important to him, and forgive him if he intrudes."

"How long did it take you and Belle to get to that point?"

"More years than it should have. More than it need take you, Sparrow."

* * *

I'm examining the holodeck register, taking count of the number of times Mr. Smee has used it this month; I'm pleased to see he's leveling off, possibly due to the new mentoring program. A sizable chunk of his free time is spent either planning his knot tying lessons or chatting with the other mentors about their charges. The program is working for Ms. Hua and Ruby too: the former now spends her mornings in the garden, exercising, while the latter has begun attending Chamber of Commerce meetings. Even Mr. Gold can be found some mornings dictating lesson notes to Andy or holding online conferences with his pupils' parents.

But he's also visiting the holodeck almost twice as often as before, and I sometimes catch him coming out emotionally and physically drained. He's scheduled for the holodeck right now, in fact. I don't usually butt in on the privacy of a resident's holodeck experience unless invited, but he's got me a little worried, so I stroll down the corridor, punch in my override code and when the doors open for me, I slip in and pause just inside. Mr. Gold is in the center of the room, still and silent, staring at the wall. As the rules require, Darwin the android stands to his distant left, monitoring the wheelchair's bio readout on a small holographic screen floating in mid-air. My rubber-soled shoes allow me to sneak up behind Gold, though of course Darwin spots me immediately and dips his head in greeting. I stop when I'm halfway between the doors and the wheelchair to study the memory Mr. Gold has chosen to have acted out for him today. I'm uncertain as to whether I should interrupt him and confront him with my concerns; maybe the content of this memory will give me some direction.

The holo-play is set in a darkened bedroom that I've seen before.. Its forest-green walls are decorated with cutouts of cars, starships, airplanes, fireball-throwing sorcerers, sword-swinging knights and fire-breathing dragons. In another land, this décor would seem an odd mishmash, but for a child growing up in Storybrooke, not so much. Pale moonlight filters in through an open window and falls gently across a twin bed, its wooden headboard carved in the shape of a comet. Under sheets a small body breathes steadily.

At the foot of the bed, softly rocking in a chair, is a larger form, its head nodding in time with the chair's rhythm.

I'm mesmerized by the serene scene, almost nodding off to sleep myself, but to my surprise, Mr. Gold is leaning forward, eyes wide, smile widening. Something's coming, something that excites and delights him. And it does: suddenly there are trotting footfalls off-screen, the bedroom door swings open and light tumbles in from the hall and a panting Belle, swaddled in a navy blue Armani robe—a man's—darts inside. As Holo-Rumple's head jerks up and the rocking chair halts, Belle gasps: "It's time."

"Don't worry, we've got this." Rumple is on his feet in an instant. Their hurried conversation as he leads her into the hall is hushed, so as not to waken the child. "We've rehearsed this a dozen times. I've got the Doves and the hospital on speed-dial. They can be here under ten minutes. Or do you feel like you need an ambulance instead?"

"Ten minutes will be fine. Enough time for me to change into my street clothes."

Holo-Rumple's hand presses against Belle's protruding belly. He hesitates—I bet I know what he's thinking: he wants to use magic to check on the baby, but Belle gives him a warning growl and he drops his hand, taking her by the elbow and escorting her back to the master bedroom. "All right, sweetheart. But just remember, if the pain is too intense or if you think the baby will arrive before Dove does—" He smiles sheepishly and flutters his fingers in the air, suggesting the use of magic.

"We _agreed_ , Rumple," she hisses at him. He lowers her to the edge of the bed and carries over an armful of clothes that have been sitting in a neat pile on her window-side reading chair for two weeks now, in preparation for this night.

"All right, sweetheart." He withdraws the robe from her shoulders, then her pajama top, then helps her stand to remove her pajama bottoms and replace them with granny panties and stretch-paneled jeans. He starts to draw her top down over her head, but she barks, "Get my bra. I'm not going out in public half-dressed." (I've heard this story before: after Gid's birth, Belle swapped out her high-heels and short skirts for practical and modest "mom clothes," though she did keep some of the flashier items from her closet for "date nights.")

"All right, sweetheart." He dresses her to her satisfaction, then lifts her and leads her back down the hallway. They peek in on the sleeping child; he's rolled onto his belly but hasn't awakened. They close his door and, to the best of her ability, they tiptoe down the stairs.

At the foot of the stairs two very tall Doves are waiting. The man clutches keys in one hand and a suitcase in the other; he greets the Golds lowly before turning and leaving by the front door. The woman pats Belle's arm, reassures her that soon they'll have a darling bundle of joy for that cradle upstairs, and assures her Gideon will be watched over until it's time to get him up for school. "And when his sister arrives, I'll pick him up from his class and bring him to the hospital to meet her, just like we planned. It's going to be fine, Little Mother, just fine."

"Thank you, Amelia. What would we do without you?" Belle pats back before allowing herself to be ushered outside.

The scene shifts to a hospital room, where Doc Miner and a nurse officiate. Belle's propped up in bed, her husband at her side, their hands clenched, her face red and dripping with sweat. They've changed her into a hospital gown, her clothes neatly folded (by Rumple, of course) and waiting on a chair. Rumple holds a paper cup of water that he brings to her lips when she asks. Doc Miner, bent over her lower half, straightens his back and pronounces the progress good. "A few more minutes and we'll transition to the birthing chair."

"Everything's fine, sweetheart," Rumple keeps murmuring, as if it's a mantra. He sets the empty cup down and picks up a damp cloth to blot her forehead. Belle just growls and smashes his hand. When the stab of pain subsides, she pushes the cloth away in annoyance, then shoves her long hair over her shoulders. For the first time since her arrival, she takes notice of the room, the walls of which have been painted to resemble those of the Great Hall in the Dark Castle. A suit of armor stands guard in one corner, a Great Wheel sits unused in the other, mythological figures pose on tapestries hanging from the walls, and some familiar drapes cover a window that isn't really there. And on every available surface is vase of red roses.

Belle frowns. "You thought this would help. Make me more comfortable."

"Uhm, yes?" Sparks fly from his fingers. "But if it doesn't, I can make it go away."

Another contraction grips her and she grips Rumple in turn, making him feel her pain. She gasps, "I know the hospital didn't give you permission to do this. You magicked all this in here, didn't you? All those long talks about doing this the natural way—I was just wasting my breath, wasn't I?"

"Well, no, I just. . . ." he shrugs. "I can take it away if you want." He raises a hand, but she seizes it and yanks it back to her belly.

She grits between clenched teeth, "Rumplestiltskin, you're annoying me again." His face falls. The contraction passes and she can breathe again. She pats his squashed hand. "But I love you anyway."

The medical staff and the husband exchange perplexed looks. Miner shakes his head in bewilderment, then clears his throat. "All right, folks, it's time to get this show on the road. Let's move you to the birthing stool."

The scene fades and comes up again on a joyful image: father and mother are sitting up on the bed with the baby shared between their laps. Doc is gone and the attending nurse has been replaced by a candy striper. Dove ducks under the doorway, his arms filled with bags from Granny's, while behind him his wife leads Gid in. "Wow!"

"She's impressive, isn't she?" Rumple winks at his son. "Just two hours old."

But it isn't his sister that has the boy fascinated: he runs from corner to corner, examining the Dark Castle replicas. "Wow! Dad, is this stuff from your castle? Is this real armor?"

"Well," Rumple looks to his wife for permission to answer truthfully. But she's distracted by the tiny fingernails on her newborn's right hand, so he avoids the question. "Here, Gid, come and meet Joy."

Dutifully but reluctantly he pries himself away from the armor and scoots onto the bed for a closer look. "Why're her eyes closed?"

"She's tired. She had a long journey getting here," Belle replies.

"Can she talk yet?"

"Now, Gid, remember, we learned about that from the _How a Baby Grows_ book."

"Oh." His patience grants him one more minute of dutiful baby inspection before he pops his head up. "Mom, can I play with armor? Just the helmet, huh? I'll take it in hall so I won't wake her up."

"All right, Gid," Belle makes a shooing motion. "Perhaps Mr. Dove will play with you, But the rest of us are hungry; we'll be having burgers and fries."

"Oh." The boy's gaze travels from the armor to the sacks that Amelia is unpacking. "I guess I could stay a little while. And then would you play with me, Mr. Dove?"

"My pleasure, Gideon."

The image freezes on the wall, then dissolves as Gold wheels around to face me. "Even when we annoyed each other—and we did rather often—it was with love overriding the anger. It took me a while to understand that. But look what happened when I did." He gestures to Darwin, who disconnects him from the computer. "Even years into our marriage, Belle and I argued."

"Walk with me," Gold urges, rolling out of the holodeck and into the hall. He continues as I trail along behind him. "Spats, usually, over little things like mud tracks on the carpet or empty gas tanks. But sometimes they'd grow into quarrels that would last a day or two. You know about our early history." He glances at me for affirmation. "When we got Gideon back, we swore to each other that no matter how angry we ever got, we'd never let it get so bad that one of us would walk out."

"If Jo and I break up someday, I doubt if it'll be because of a fight. He's just too nice a guy." We pass through the lobby and bid good morning to the cleaning androids. Just habit—the cleaners aren't programmed to speak.

"That temperament is genetic, I believe. However imposing the Doves are, their blood always runs cool." We leave the lobby for the corridor leading to the residents' chambers. "That can be perplexing for friends whose natural temperatures run higher."

"Like me."

"Don't assume that just because he doesn't get easily riled that he feels any less deeply than you do. His level-headedness should be appreciated for what it can accomplish in a crisis." Gold pauses at his suite. "And believe me, every couple will face a crisis at some point."

"I'll remember that, Mr. G."

* * *

I'm picking Jo up for our Saturday date: a day in training at Charming's Academy for Knights. The classes are meant for kids, but the proprietor has arranged for a special adults-only event, as a marketing device to assure parents and grandparents that these classes are wholesome, safe and entertaining for youngsters. We're going simply because Jo's confessed he had his ninth birthday party here and he'd never forgotten it.

I catch myself biting my nails as I press my eye against the security plate on Jo's door. I've been running over and over this same thought ever since my talk with Mr. Gold. I've rehearsed a little speech and I'm whispering it to myself now as the house opens for me and announces me to Jo, who emerges from the kitchen. I blurt out the first part of my speech: "Jo, there's something I need to say about the other day, when—"

But I'm trampling upon his greeting to me: "Cherie, I feel bad about that disagreement we—"

He figures it out a second or two before I do, and he sweeps me into his arms and kisses me before either of us can finish our apology. After the kiss, we're still cuddling (though my toes are aching from my perching on them to reach his mouth). "I really am sorry. I wasn't ever angry, not really," I begin, and he shakes his head. "Me neither. Just worried about you."

"I understand now. I guess I would've felt the same, if you were doing a job that isn't safe." I pull back and scan his six-foot-six muscular form. "Although, I guess there aren't as many jobs that wouldn't be safe for you."

He draws a cross over his heart. "I promise from now on I'll have more faith in your judgment." Then he drops his hand and looks embarrassed. "Though, to be honest, I can't promise to never worry about you."

"It's okay. I like that you worry about me a little, now that I understand why. And I promise," I cross my heart too, "instead of flying off the handle, the next time we dispute something, I'll ask why. Or, try to, at least."

"That's what I like about you, Cherie."

I'm puzzled. "What is? What is what you like about me?"

"Some of everything."


End file.
